Synopsis:

Another BigCloset TopShelf story.

This covers my heroine Joanie’s first Christmas as a woman -- her first ever away from her birth family. She learns valuable lessions in the week before Christmas and returns the favor. All while struggling to make sense of being young, female and a mutant. I made this story as “stand alone” as I could to aid those not familiar with my Whateley Academy Fan Fic

Andy Warhol said,"In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes." What if your 15 minutes came late in life, and fame decided to never let you go? Could you survive the circus your life would become?

Story:

Timeout, First Christmas: A Whateley Academy Fan fiction

This is fan fiction for the Whateley Academy series. It may or may not match the timeline, characters, and continuity, but since it's fan fiction, who cares? To see the canon Whateley Stories, check out either Sapphire's Place,

(http://www.sapphireplace.com/stories/whateley.html) or the Big Closet (http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/taxonomy/term/117)."

This is my first entry in Erin’s holiday 2006 story contest at BC. This story covers my heroine Joanie’s first Christmas season as a woman -- her first ever separated from her birth family. This fits in around page nine of Timeout 2, Chapter 6 in my epic TG mutant superheroine saga and excuse to recycle old jokes. Your constructive criticism and advice does wonders. This is an exercise in the joys of creativity and in appreciation of the wonderful Whateley Universe. Any violations of copyright, trade mark or use of real people or incidents are purely for purposes of humor or parody and done solely for the free enjoyment of the reading public. All rights reserved in perpetuity, John from Wauwatosa WI, 2005-2006.

I have tried to make this story as much “stand alone” as I could to aid those not familiar with my Whateley Academy Fan Fic.

Adult content advisory: this chapter may contain situations and topics unsuitable for children. It’s usually mild stuff, but you were warned.

Timeout, First Christmas

By John from Wauwatosa
Rhetorical refinement by Itinerant
Additional verbiage verisimilitude by Janet Nolan

Chapter 1, A Question of Balance

Whateley Academy Dunwich, December 20, 2006-January 01, 2007

December 20, 2006, 11PM Poe Hall

Today has not gone well. Let’s be honest -- today sucked. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not ladylike, but then I’ve only been one for less than six months. Give me a break! Two days ago I turned 49 on national TV -- well, technically 49. Oh, I was born 49 years ago, but that was John, the old me. Joan, the new me, is either seventeen or from a practical standpoint six months.

I’d always been at home on my birthday; this was the first time I was not, and it hurt. I was occupied at the time -- the appearance on TV -- so I paid it no heed, but it caught up with a vengeance today. No sunshine cake with powdered sugar made by my mom; no funny money-filled birthday card from my grandma and grandpa. Though they were dead one, thirteen and eleven years respectively, I missed them terribly. Not even a call from my uncle on the north side of town -- he’s alive but doesn’t/can’t know what happened to me. Two aunts, a sister and mom all lost in under a year. Oh great, here come the waterworks, thinking of mom sets me off without fail.

“It’s not fair!” I sobbed.

~~Damn, now I’m crying,~~

* * * *

Where was I? After my mutation from a middle-aged man to this fire-cracker of a seventeen year old -- complete with cool mutant powers; I can manipulate time and I’m a regenerator -- my life was turned on its head and then some. I had this marvelous ‘second chance’ everyone kept telling me, but I hadn’t a clue what do with myself. The big problem for me was the necessity to separate myself from my old friends and family; my powers made me too tempting a target for unethical medical researchers, kidnappers or worse.

In Madison, I was too busy and frankly too involved to be lonely -- Carrie, Red, Gin and Dari, my lady friends from the Madison Supers Group, saw to that. Sadly, that situation was not what I wanted. I enjoyed it immensely; for a while my *personal* life was a men’s magazine fantasy story. I was in lesbian heaven, to be blunt, but it was lacking something. I wasn’t sure what I wanted then, but from observing my friends and colleagues I know now what I wanted -- it’s what I want now -- a family.

~~I remember our family when I was little, and I see that same joy in the Williams family. I’m so grateful I could save Mel’s life; she’ll be a remarkable woman in time. That I became friends with her family is pure gravy. I hope someday I’m as happy as they are. I’d love to have a daughter like Mel, a son like Eric and a husband like Bob. I remember Bob in that sweaty body-hugging running suit he wore in November. To paraphrase Young Frankenstein, Woof!~~

For now, Whateley Academy is the place for me; a place to *find* myself -- that is cliché but true. I’m not sure specifically what I want other than this vague concept of *family*.

~~You tell yourself that one until you believe it, girrrl. You’re the one who cajoled Eric into inviting you to a school dance this coming February. Like you’re so pure in your interest in men, or in Eric. You *know* exactly what you want and it’s attached to a man right between his ....~~

Ah-hum, as I was saying, I find myself eyeing both the boys and girls my physical *age* -- upper teens or early twenties. Jeese, get your heads out of the gutter, folks. I’m not a sex hungry pervert, despite what my *libido* intimates.

~~Hear THAT libido? I *have* control. Just because I fantasize about doing *it* simultaneously with the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir does nor mean I don’t have control.~~

Dear readers of my diary/journal/whatever, when I got this whole sexy-young-optimized-version-of--my-female-genes-and-BIT mutant makeover back in July I apparently opted for the *giant-family-sized libido at no extra charge* option. You know -- your basic nubile nympho package. You may all roll your tongues back in your mouths now, readers. Honestly, I’m not aroused all the time, but I guarantee I will not die with my legs together.

~~I just said that?~~

Sorry, but it’s fun pulling your chains, readers. It was circumstance and my 48 plus years as a man that made women my first choice as romantic partners, post-mutation. I have no regrets and would love to have another tumble with my girlfriends, but the lure of family is too strong -- men are looking better to me by the day.

I’m so proud; I leave myself a setup, yet refrain from making a tasteless joke about the Tabernacle having one of the biggest and finest organs … Maybe I’d better explain why today plain-out sucked.

~~Keep that up kiddo and there won’t be enough bars of soap in the world to wash your filthy mouth out with.~~

* * * *

I spent most of the day with Whateley Security being fitted for uniforms and equipment -- everything from batons to body armor. I can take or leave shopping; I’m not a die hard in-and-out stereotypical guy shopper or the supposed shop-till-you-drop woman. I can and do enjoy shopping, and can see the excitement some people get from it, but the meticulous fitting, adjusting, re-fitting and ‘this is how you properly care for and store your yada-yada-yada Mark Seven, Auxiliary Officer-trainee Joan’ was too much.

There were a few funny moments. My figure in body armor was something out of a sci-fi space epic -- Barbarella eat your heart out -- but the tedium wore me down. I felt vaguely unhappy at first, and got less enthused as the day went on. I had a checkout on the gun range midday. Turns out I’m a decent shot, but then exemplars often excel at athletics. They found a problem though.

“Joanie, were you a pacifist as a man?” the range instructor asked.

We had gone through the whole, ‘Call me Joanie, everyone else does,’ shtick earlier.

“No. I wasn’t. I don’t like fighting, but I could see where it might be justified,” I replied, slightly annoyed.

I have to be careful about my body language and tone of voice. Coming off annoyed given my looks and voice is easily confused with “I want what’s in your pants, stallion.” Between that and being 17 -- in both appearance and physiology -- I have my share of frustration. That is, the 49 year-old man in me does, my female ‘inner child’ thinks this is all a blast -- girls just want to have fun and all that.

“I’m a moderate-level empath and I sensed your momentary revulsion at shooting at the silhouettes and particularly the holographic movies of real people. You did what you had to; you shot the perps who were threats, but you hesitated. It’s enough to make me worry you might choke at the real thing or delay long enough to get somebody hurt,” he replied.

“But isn’t that what training is for, to learn when and when not to shoot? I’d think you’d want to err towards shooting late rather than shooting too soon and killing innocents,” I countered testily.

“It’s my duty to evaluate all recruits and periodically re-evaluate existing officers to see how they will react in a crisis. You appear to operate on instinct when a crisis hits, Joanie. The way you acted to save the girl on Labor Day is proof. You ran into traffic without a moment’s hesitation, and I studied all the available video and stills once I knew I was assigned to evaluate you. I also studied the CCTV and sensor logs of your encounter with the Omegas here at Whateley. Your action in both cases was commendable, yet troubling given your reactions on the shooting range,” the instructor explained.

“Troubling how?” I asked.

“You are fearless in action, yet violence is so against your nature that you suffer an almost immediate attack of PTSD afterward or so it appears,” he said.

“I used my time-stop in both cases; it fatigues me. And the two situations were stressful,” I countered.

“But why do you get sick? Does the adrenalin rush and fatigue account for it or not? Your reaction to firearms worries me. You shot well. As an exemplar I’d expect no less. Emotionally you exhibited significant revulsion in holding a firearm, despite your admiration for the workmanship in their manufacture and your satisfaction in your marksmanship.”

“I hear lots of police and soldiers get sick after traumatic events, why is it odd that I do? Plus I’ve rarely handled firearms in my life, and they do deserve respect as lethal weapons, particularly the handguns. I mean, handguns are only good for target shooting and killing people. My Ghod, am I that antigun?” I exclaimed.

“I believe you’re more anti-death than anti-gun, Joanie, but we can work with that. Some of our best officers are that way. Our own Sam Everheart was a military sniper; one of the best. She killed many in her time in service, and some with her bare hands. Officer Everheart has killed, and will kill, without hesitation when required. She is serious in her dedication to duty, but she is not a killer at heart. She abhors death. My worry is you might fail to take the lethal shot when it is necessary. Your instinct to help at any cost is at war with your revulsion at death -- see the dilemma?” he explained.

“What do we do?”

“I may have a compromise. While we work on adjusting your instincts, I think you should carry Tazers instead of a projectile weapon. Tazers are not 100 percent non-lethal, but they are certainly less injurious than a nine-millimeter semi automatic, a pump shotgun, or a fifty caliber rifle with rocket-assisted armor piercing shells. With a minimal amount of training, you’ll have an effective weapon you’ll be less hesitant to use when necessary. We will work hard to train you in unarmed combat and how to safely restrain a suspect. The British police got away without the use of firearms by much of their force for years. There is no reason you can’t be equally effective, particularly with your mutant powers and the special Tazer loads we’re helping develop for controlling supers. We even took energizers and bricks into account,” the range instructor explained.

We made arrangements to meet the next morning to try shooting some Tazer loads on the test range. He’d been professional with me, yet I felt … I wasn’t sure what I felt other than dissatisfied in some way.

* * * *

I tried calling my father several times during the day, but all I got was his answering machine. I tried my sister, but her husband, Tony, answered.

“She’s in the hospital as ….”

“Hospital! What’s wrong Tony? Tell me! Oh Ghod, don’t let it be pneumonia again or ….” I screamed into the phone, and sobbed. I was losing control fast.

“Joanie, calm down, she’s fine; it’s a precaution. Your sister developed an upper respiratory infection, and after that previous one that became double-pneumonia, they took no chances. Your dad is with her now; I’ll see her later. Yes, I *still* don’t have a driver’s license.”

~~So that’s why Dad didn’t answer.~~

“Do you have her number so I can call? I’d feel so much better if I could talk with her, and I think it would cheer her up.”

“If the strain proves to be easily treatable, she gets out tomorrow. They are waiting on the results. They want her to rest, so they turned off her phone. I’ll let her know you called,” Tony said.

“You do that; I feel so helpless,” I sighed.

~~This is fuckin’ great. The last three times one of us was admitted to the hospital, two never recovered. My older sister died in the damned place.~~

“You okay, Joanie? You don’t sound too good.”

“Hospitals scare me after Mom and big sis. I guess it’s that and the holiday blues. I’m lonely and feeling sorry for myself; it’s nothing serious, Tony. I’m homesick and I miss all of you. When she’s healthy, take my sister someplace nice like a weekend at a classy hotel. Hell, take her to Hawaii, she loved it. I’ll pay,” I said.

“I can pay!”

“I owe you both. Consider it your joint Christmas present and to make up for the cheap wedding present I gave you two. I owe my baby sister something better than that waffle-maker, and you make her happy so I owe you, Tony. I’d better go. Give her my love, Tony,” I said and hung up, my face wet with silent tears.

~~Ghod, not her too. Please, let my sister be well.~~

* * * *

I had a late lunch/early supper and was in a royal funk. It was quiet on campus with so many students on vacation. There were enough who couldn’t, wouldn’t, or shouldn’t travel home for the holidays that our cafeteria, the Crystal Hall, was partially filled, but nothing like normal. My emotional state was to the point I didn’t care about anything. I was in a strange mood even by my own standards. I started to sing at random -- anything that came to mind -- then I remembered it.

“I don’t love the mountains
And I don’t love the sea
And I don’t love Jesus
He never done a thing for me
I ain’t pretty like my sister
Or smart like my dad
Or good like my momma

It’s Money That I Love
It’s Money That I Love”

As I belted out the 1979 Randy Newman tune, a couple of the students in the Crystal Hall began playing along. Several must have been fans of this style of music, as a boy sat down at an old upright piano on the side of the room and began banging out the piano lead. Another quickly plugged in a practice amp and played electric guitar. Still others tapped out the rhythm on the tables. I climbed atop my table and sang my pain and frustrations out.

“They say that money
Can’t buy love in this world
But it’ll get you a half-pound of cocaine
And a sixteen-year-old girl
And a great big long limousine
On a hot September night
Now that may not be love
But it is alright

One. two
It’s Money That I Love
Wanna kiss you
Three. four
It’s Money That I Love”

I was oblivious to everyone and everything while my aching, confused heart latched onto the cynicism and biting social commentary of Newman’s satirical gem.

“Used to worry about the poor
But I don’t worry anymore
Used to worry about the black man
Now I don’t worry abut the black man
I used to worry about the starving children of India
You know what I say now about the starving children of India?

I say. Oh mama”

It’s Money That I Love
It’s Money That I Love
It’s Money That I Love”

* * * *

I calmed down and heard a fair crowd of kids applauding me. I smiled, embarrassed -- I think I blushed -- and climbed down from the table to the great relief of the watching food service employees.

~~Thank Ghod I wore jeans and not a skirt … skin-tight figure flattering show-everything fashion-jeans … Thank Ghod I wore underwear.~~

“Joanie, that was, like wow! You ever think of starting a band at Whateley?” asked a lithe-looking young girl who had been drumming along on the tables -- the drum-sticks in her hands were a dead give-a-way.

“You think others here would like to play old-fogie music?” I asked back smiling, buoyed by her enthusiasm.

“If it’s stuff like that one, you bet! I’d join in a second if you were serious about it. The competition to get into bands is fierce at Whateley, what with so many kids with mutant powers that enhance their musical talent. We could use another band, and it would be fun. So many want to play the hard-edged stuff or the latest *coming trend*. To lay back and *groove* on some oldies would be way cool. That’s cool with a ‘C’, Joanie, I do know my ancient history,” said the girl then she snickered happily.

"I’ll think about it, but with break on until after New Years it doesn’t make any sense to start organizing one until the next term starts,” I replied. “What was your name, Miss?”

“I’m Lonnie; I’m a freshman in sorcery. Cauldrons, wands, spell books, all the wickedly cool old stuff. Know someone you want to put a curse on? They’re on sale this week at K-Mart -- in the bed, bath, and bewitchments department,” she said and smiled.

I looked at her and it dawned on me.

“That was so bad!” I said wincing.

~~I’m so glad she didn’t add it was a bell, book and blue-light special.~~

“Don’t look at me like that, Joanie, sorceresses are allowed bad jokes same as everyone else. Maybe I’ll see you in class this spring; I hear you’re a teacher,” she said.

“I’m also a student as I’ve been a teenage mutant ninja turtle for less than six months,” I said.

“Teenage mutant ninja turtle?” Lonnie questioned in her confusion. “Oh, you’re a tease; you mean those cartoons, comic books and movies,” she finished and laughed. “If you do start a band, remember me. I’m a good drummer and I saw what you did to those Omega creeps. The Omegas gave me a hard time once, they claimed I’d insulted them — I don’t know what I did to them, if anything. I think they were looking to make an example of someone and I was handy. The creeps roughed me up, ruined a class assignment I’d worked for days on, and tore my clothes, but there were no witnesses. I owe you, and you stopped them without hurting anyone. That impressed me even more. Mom always said it’s actions that count, not words. You helped a lot of kids, more than you know. And you made a friend -- thanks, friend,” she said, hugged me and walked off.

* * * *
I tried several more times to call home that evening, but dad never picked up and it was getting late. I fell into an uneasy sleep.

~~ What will tomorrow be like? What will my future be …~~

-- Zzzzz … --

* * * *

The Farm, Dunwich NH, December 18, 2016

Dear d/j/w. I have not made many entries recently in this, the chronicle of my life since my mutation. Today seems as good a day as any other to remedy the oversight. I admit that I have been extraordinarily busy these last few years with my duties -- correction, my delightful duties at Whateley Academy. They take considerable time on my part, but I regret not a minute …

-- Zzzzz … --

Today I turned 59. It amazes me still, though years older than my beloved, I remain by all physical measures 17; I haven’t aged a second since my mutation completed. My soul-mate has gone to Berlin airport to pick up my two best friends …

-- Zzzzz … --

His sister, my dear friend is in her fourth year at Georgetown and is considered by many the most eligible bachelorette in America. That her daddy just won a second term has a lot to do with it, but then she is stunningly beautiful. She flew in with my daughter, who is returning from a field trip to Egypt arranged through a friend and colleague …

-- Zzzzz … --

My daughter is everything I could hope for in a child save for one thing, and I love her all the more for that. I have a graduation present for my young “doctor” if she wants it -- the Meridian Chair. I hope she takes it, as I will soon be too busy for the research and oversight it demands.

I’d worried that our joint announcement in 2012 that she was my legally adopted …

-- Zzzzz … --

I admit I have an ulterior motive in offering her the Meridian Chair; my due date is in May and caring for twin girls ….

-- Zzzzz … --

-- Zzz … --

-- Uh? … --

“Aaaaaaaaah!”

* * * *

December 21, 2006, 4:25AM

I woke up in a cold sweat, screaming this morning -- not my preferred way to start the day.

~~Where the hell did that dream come from?~~

I admit I have a growing desire to start a family -- what with this second chance and all -- but a daughter who’s a doctoral candidate a mere ten years from now? Adopted, so the dream said, though dreams are not always logical. As to hubby and his sister, that’s easy. I was thinking about doing something to thank the Johnson family for how kind they’ve been to me. My goofy subconscious must have made Eric my husband and Mel my best friend. The husband bit must be because I have this dance I’m attending with him in February. Mel being my ‘best friend’ makes sense; I do love the bouncing beautiful blonde bundle of boisterousness.

~~Note to self: forced alliteration SUCKS. Do not, repeat, do not do it, Joanie.~~

The relative ages of my *husband*, his sister, and I, and their dad being President -- the ‘second term’ seems to imply he’s the President -- is a dead-give-away they must be the Johnsons. It all follows logically: their dad is Iowa’s governor and their grandfather a long-time US Senator. The press is speculating the Governor may run for president. My mind simply filled in the gaps. As to Mel being a famous beauty: I like her, and based on her current looks and her parents’ appearance, it’s not much of a long-shot.

As to my being pregnant with twins … It’s so obvious, Mom lost a set of twins between the births of my younger sister and me. I’m fulfilling her lost hope.

~~Ooh, this dream interpretation stuff is a snap, I wonder if there is any money in it?~~

My good mood soon evaporated, however.

* * * *

Tina caught up with me at the Crystal Hall for breakfast.

“What’s wrong, sweet-stuff? You look down,” she said.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t sleep well. Maybe after finally getting to Whateley I don’t have any immediate goals? Is this the anticlimax?” I asked, drearily.

“You’re away from your old friends and family for the holiday. That could be it,” she offered.

“I’ve always been home or with my family this time of year,” I said, then yawned.

“Come to our house for Christmas Day. Chris and I have a ham and a duck ready to roast and lots of other things. Please come, we’d love to have you.”

“Tina, I’d love that too, but remember the mental feedback loop?” I said, and licked my lips provocatively.

“Joanie, I meant … okay, I meant *that* too but I was inviting you to dinner with my sister and me. Can you cook?” she asked.

“I’m an Eagle Scout -- be prepared and all that -- I can cook, sort of,” I said and smiled.

“If you can we’d appreciate the help, and we can get to know each other better but in a safe way,” Tina said.

We’d toyed with a romantic relationship when I first arrived at Whateley, that proved *interesting * to put it mildly. Regrettably the Anderson twins’ empathic/telepathic powers and my own passive yet powerful mental powers made such a relationship dangerous. In the height of passion it was possible for us to interlock our emotions, and the positive feedback generated could have damaged our minds. We decided to become friends, and I am grateful for that emotional support.

“When are you planning on eating? At what time do you have to start the duck and ham? I can bake mouth-watering buns and bread the same morning -- not that marshmallow and cardboard stuff from the store,” I replied. “That’s if you can give me the oven for a couple hours.”

“Chris and I were figuring on eating around one or two o'clock. We have one regular oven and a smaller countertop convection oven. The ham and duck could fit in the big one together with care or one-at-a-time in the countertop unit. I think it’s about three or four hours for the ham, two or so for the duck. Why?”

“If I can come early -- like six or seven in the morning -- I can make buns, and maybe something special if I can get mom’s old recipe from Sis,” I offered and grinned.

“The rapturous expression on your face says this is a favorite,” Tina said.

“Let me do this and I’m your slave, Mistress. I’ll bring everything I need except for the oven,” I made an overly grand bow and prostrated myself at her feet — I was right out of some bad Arabian Nights film.

“Oh, choices? Great food and a willing sex-kitten vs. nothing -- tough choice, you’re on,” Tina said.

I sprang-up, threw my arms around her, and French-kissed her despite the risk. Then I sat down like nothing had happened.

“Wow! That for letting you cook for us? Honey, we’ll let you spackle our walls, if you’ll have sex with us,” Tina offered panting and flushed. I was hamming it up, this was such fun.

“If you’ll let me muck about in your septic-tank leach-field, I’ll have your babies,” I said huskily.

I made this feline stretch of my entire body by placing my feet against the edge of the table and pushing back — very sensual -- and promptly fell as my chair’s back legs slipped when I rocked it back too far. Poor Tina laughed so hard she felt embarrassed afterward. I simply felt embarrassed, and deliriously happy again.

~~What’s with the yoyo mood swings? It’s not like I’m … Doh! I’m two days from my period.~~ Somehow I found *that* realization to be hilarious, don’t ask me why. I think the vivacious teenage girl I am was sick of the grumpy old man I was acting like — you go girl!

* * * *

After my much needed cheering-up at the hands of the delectable Ms. Tina Anderson, I checked in with Security for my Tazer practice. I found it was delayed for a few days as we were unacceptably low on both the practice rounds and real ones for the Tazers as an after-effect of the assault on campus this last Halloween. Somehow, in the mad shuffle to recover from the disaster of Halloween, replenishing the Tazer ammo had been forgotten. Given the horrors of that day, forgetting to order Tazer loads was an understandable error. My own experiences that October evening in Madison were little better, but that is another story.

* * * *

I gave my sister a call on her cell and was relieved to hear her voice.

“Good morning, Joh … Joanie,” she corrected herself. “Isn’t caller ID fun? Who else would ‘ID blocked, Dunwich NH' be?”

“It’s a good morning if you’re at home and getting better. You gave me a scare, Sis,” I said.

“Tony told me you were crying. I’m sorry you were frightened, but I’m a tough girl. I’m not checking out anytime soon,” she said.

“Don’t you dare, not after mom and big sis ... Do you have mom’s old cookbooks? I need the turkey with giblets stuffing recipe; I’m cooking for some friends for Christmas.”

“The Old Settlement Cookbook? Dad has that but I can get it. You want me to scan the recipe and email it to you, Sis?” she asked.

“Would you? I know the ingredients but not the measures,” I said.

“And preparing it will remind you of home. I knew you back when you were my brother, and I know you now, girl,” she said, and laughed with a touch of a wheeze, but no cough.

~~Thank Ghod!~~

“You get well! I want my children to know their aunt,” I said for no reason I knew of.

“Aunt? What have you been doing, and who is he, Joanie?”

“I mean I want you to live a long life. I have to find a man before I can think of having children; I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart. I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you thought. I’m not some blonde slut, I’m a 17 year-old strawberry blonde with a healthy sex … I guess I am a slut at heart,” I said and giggled.

“Joanie, you’re a healthy seventeen-year-old girl who used to be a man. Of course you’re a slut. Take care, *baby* sister,” she said, laughing as she hung up before I could get her back.

* * * *

With my time being entirely open due to lack of ammo, I wonder if this can get an honorable mention under weird diary entries?~~ I decided to shop for what I’d need to bake my contributions to the Anderson’s Christmas feast. It was a pleasant December day. Everyone I could mooch a ride from was busy, so I decided to take my ancient Harley since the roads were clear except for some minor drifting snow.

I’d changed into some warm clothes — insulated stirrup pants, ski socks, a synthetic flannel shirt, and a wool sweater. I then stepped into a winter cycle-suit — an insulated jumpsuit is an apt description. A pair of insulated cold-weather riding boots ensured my feet were toasty. More of my favorite Steve Zink’s, these were equipped with military grade micro vacuum-bead insulation. The ankle supports, traction-patterned sole, various scuff-guards and a modest two-inch block heel made them practical and stylish.

Wind-proof heavily insulated riding gloves with draw-string gauntlets and a full-face helmet with a *skirt* that sealed to the riding suit with Velcro kept the wind of my skin. I made sure to carry my tool kit and a cold-weather emergency kit just in case. I grabbed my fully-charged cell phone and rode-off after informing Security of my destination.

* * * *

Berlin and Gorham had the best selection of shops but I decided to give Dunwich a try as it was closer. Dunwich was a bust except for a great jewelry maker’s shop, where I got a pair of matching gold and platinum locket necklaces, the kind you can keep photos in.

“Melissa will love this,” I said to the jeweler, a forty-ish lady.

I had her engrave one, ‘To my bestest friend, Mel. Love Joanie.’

“That’s a strange word, ‘bestest’,” she asked.

“It’s for an eleven year old girl, a dear friend of mine, and she speaks that way when she’s excited,” I explained.

“An inside joke or secret between you two?” I nodded my affirmation to both.

“The second one I want kept plain so that Mel -- with help from her mom -- can have it engraved for me as my keepsake of her,” I explained.

“This is a generous present to give to a young woman, Miss ...?”

“Brown, Joan Brown, I’m a new schoolteacher up the road.”

“At Whateley?” I nodded.

She looked at me and the light bulb over her head flashed into blinding incandescence.

“It’s for the girl rescued from the highway last Labor Day in Wisconsin. You’re that Joanie, the singer and brave mutant. I saw that rescue; I cried for you both. She’ll love this from you, Joanie, it’s the perfect gift. I have some classy silk-lined boxes intended for wedding-ring sets -- diamond bracelets and the like. If I can find a couple, I’ll throw them in for free. A gift like this deserves a proper box,” she said beaming at me.

“You don’t have to.”

“For a cute girl like her and a heroine like you, I insist,” she said.

“Okay, but only because it’s for Mel; I don’t expect favors for myself,” I added.

“Joanie, I have a pair of earrings that should match your necklace. They are expensive, I’m afraid, as they are handmade and the stones are of the highest quality. I guarantee it; take them to any reputable gemologist. Want to see?” she got a case out of a vault.

“Okay, if they ... Oh Ghod, those are …!”

“Some of my best work: each is 24 carat gold alloyed with platinum down to 22 carats for durability, a full two-carat natural emerald in the classic cut for emeralds surrounded by a dozen half-carat flawless diamonds. The pair was designed for an actress attending the Academy Awards, and then she changed her mind. With your copper eyes and that reddish-blonde hair, the emeralds are perfect,” she said, and smiled.

She let me try them on; they were dazzling. I stared at the exquisite woman’s face in the mirror.

~~Academy Awards, my ass, *this* woman is dressed for her coronation. I’m beautiful, mom! Ghod, I wish you could see me.~~

My elation must have been obvious.

I told you they would suit you. Your man will be impressed how well they compliment your beauty,” she said.

“But I don’t have …

~~I’ll be irresistible. I have to buy these.~~

“How much?”

She whispered the price almost apologetically.

“I could buy a house for … Um, you take Visa?”

* * * *

~~Well, I’m a girl for sure now, if there was any question. Buying jewelry as expensive as my parent’s house proves it. But I had to; it looks so good on me. I’ll save it for a special occasion like my prom or my wedding.

~~I’m starting a hope chest and thinking of my wedding? Hear ye, hear ye, the John is dead, long live the Joan!~~

* * * *

I ate lunch, and used the ladies room as a precaution -- have you tried taking a piddle on the side of the road as a man let alone a woman and with snow?

I rode toward Berlin at a moderate pace; the occasional small drifts were not a hazard at this speed. I rounded a blind-curve to see debris scattered across the road -- trash must have fallen off the back of a truck. I couldn’t stop but I could slow down enough that maybe …

-- Bang! …Thwup, thwup, thwup …--

I blew my rear tire. I got the bike to a wobbly but safe stop -- I was very lucky. Vintage cycles have tires with inner-tubes. The tires are prone to dismount from the rim when deflated -- very dangerous if it happens at speed.

I looked at the bike carefully after I wrestled it to the side of the road.

~~I’ll have to slip out the tube and find the leak, patch it, and slip it back into place. Then I’ll have to pump it back up while making sure to avoid pinching the tube and making sure that the tire bead mounts properly. That will be a bitch in the cold but I’ll be on my way in a hour or … A side-wall cut?~~

“Shit, shit, shit!”

I was not a happy camper. Sidewall cuts are not repairable. If I’d managed to patch and pump it up without it blowing-out on the spot, the weakened tire would fail catastrophically in use. My GPS confirmed I was five miles from Berlin. I was stranded on a snow swept road with little traffic and no signs of nearby human habitation. Whateley was much farther the other way. I tried my cell phone, and found I was in a dead-spot in the foothills of the White Mountains.

That’s what I get for being cheap and not getting a satellite phone.~~

There were no farmhouses near by -- at least any that looked occupied — thus no hope of shelter to wait for a ride in.

“Looks like I’ll have to hoof it to Berlin. At least my boots are water resistant and my clothes are warm. I hate to leave the bike, but the tire is half off already; I’d be dragging it soon,” I said to the wind.

I was a good person and dragged the offending junk into the ditch -- an old metal bed spring assembly from a roll-a-way bed was much of it.

“Good, now no one else will hit that junk and be stranded or have an accident,” I said, my speech a mantra against the near wilderness of the place.

I locked the cycle to a strong wooden gate post at the entrance to a farm field -- the best I could manage -- dismounted my GPS navigation unit and placed it in my panniers along with my tool kit after writing a message on the gas tank with my lipstick. A kiss-proof coral, if you must to know.

“Walking to Berlin, 2PM, 12-21-06, Joan. Please call Whateley Academy,” I wrote. An arrow drawn on top showed the way I intended to travel.

I hated leaving my bike to the tender mercies of passersby but I needed to reach somewhere I could get help. I’d walked for half an hour, and covered over a mile according to my GPS. I‘d taken it out to check my progress after I tried to call on my cell again

~~A solid mile is not bad given the falling snow and my heavy bags. The lack of a signal is disconcerting — an inconvenience to me, potently life-threatening to the average person. I’ll have to let the cell people know of my *displeasure* --nationwide coverage my ass!~~

~~Being an exemplar helps. I’d never have managed all this even as a guy.~~

I heard a truck driving up the road, its winter tires making a considerable sound on the pavement. I got to the edge of the road, took off my helmet and waved for assistance. The up-market SUV slowed, then continued on its way.

“You mother …!”

For those with delicate sensibilities, I decline to record my observations on the SUV driver’s moral rectitude, intelligence, sexual preference, appearance, relative size of their private parts and other aspects of their soon to be shortened life, should *I* get my hands around their neck. Then I heard the same sound coming the other way but slower. The SUV -- a Range Rover -- pulled to a stop across the way from me, the driver’s window opened and the driver said,

“Do you need any assistance Ms. …”

“Ms. ...”

“Brown?”

“Hartford?” we said over each other.

She helped me place my panniers in the back and we drove back to get the cycle. Fifteen minutes later we were passing where she’d stopped to help me.

“You should get an all-wheel drive SUV, or a pickup truck, if you intend to drive in winter, Ms. Brown. I understand your attachment to your grandfather’s motorcycle, but it is not practical winter transport. I’d take you to Whateley, but I have a plane to catch at Berlin. They have a tire dealer and a motorcycle dealer plus lodging. You should be fine,” she said with little hint of smugness despite the golden opportunity to lecture me. Ms. Hartford had a well-earned reputation for treating the poor unfortunate students who had dealings with her as, well, little kids.

“That was brave of you, a woman driving alone, to come back and stop for me, Ms. Hartford,” I said.

“If I hadn’t recognized you I would have told you to stay put, as I was calling the Sheriff’s office on your behalf. I know women are at risk traveling alone, but you appeared to be in real distress. Winter can be deadly here, Ms. Brown; don’t underestimate its danger,” she replied.

“I owe you. This is a great kindness,” I said.

“You would have done the same or more. It’s your nature,” she said and was quiet the rest of the way.

We were nearing the cycle dealer when she said, “You can do me a favor, Ms. Brown. Do your best to be role-model to the students. You look like them and are famous. Show them discipline and maturity; show them that school is a serious business. So many think it’s a game, but Whateley is here to teach them to survive. The real world is seldom kind to mutants. We die far younger than we should. I’ve seen it happen too many times,”’ she said and looked bitter.

”I don’t know about appearing serous or acting mature, not with this body but I promise you I will do my best for Whateley and her students, my seventeen year old body not withstanding,” I replied and smiled.

* * * *

In Berlin we unloaded my cycle, panniers, and helmet with help from the cycle dealership we’d found, and she drove off. A mechanic helped me bring it all inside the repair shop.

“Thank you. Do you have a tire and tube for my cycle? It’s an old model,” I asked.

The mechanic, a man in his late twenties, eyed my bike with an appreciative eye that bordered on envy.

“That’s a fine old machine you have there Ms. …”

His reaction, as I opened the top of my riding suit to keep from overheating, was predictable. I could smell the surging testosterone over the grease, oil, paint and rubber smells of the repair shop. From the music in the background, the dealership sound system was tuned to a country station. He surprised me by remaining professional though parts of him had other ideas.

“That’s a World War One vintage Harley, Miss?” he asked as he tried to hide his rising … enthusiasm.

“Brown, Joan Brown,” ~~Agent 007… I have seen too many old films. ~~ “Can you fix my 1915 Harley racing bike?” I asked, trying not to embarrass him more.

“I’ll have to check the conversion table after ‘reading’ your tires and taking some measurements. The new tires use a different labeling system,” he said then he inspected the cycle closely. “What’s a young woman like yourself doing out on a vintage machine in this weather? Why are you in Berlin, Joan, if I may ask?”

~~Is he feeling me out as a possible date?~~

“I’m shopping for Christmas. I’m a newly hired school teacher,”

“You’re a school teacher? You look so young. Do you teach in town?”

“No, at Whateley Academy,” I replied.

“The mutant school? I don’t mean to sound insulting, but won’t that be difficult?” asked and looking wide-eyed.

“In what way?”

“A beautiful young slip of a girl, I fear for your safety -- what are you, 19 or 20 tops? Some of the students are supers, and a few are violent, even ultra-violent class. Don’t get me wrong, most are normal kids except for their powers. I get some business from the Academy. A good customer is one of a pair of twin mutants, a Ms. Anderson,” he said.

“Chris, I know her and Tina well. Chris tuned my cycle as a birthday present a few days ago. Lovely women, both of them,” I added.

“You be careful, Joan. What do you teach?” he asked.

“I’m a substitute. I’ll teach almost anything, concentrating on history and vocal music. Any idea how long this will take, I have shopping to do?” I asked.

“I should know in 30 minutes if we stock the tube and tires here, or if we need to special order them. I recommend replacing them with a matched set, as mismatched tires affect a cycle's handling. We have coffee and bakery in the dealership lounge; wait there if you like.”

I used the women’s room to change out of my winter riding suit and settled into an overstuffed chair in the lounge to rest. I sipped my coffee and listened to the radio.

“To help you keep going on a snowy December day, here’s an energy-packed remake of the Roy Orbison oldie Ooby Dooby as sung by the irresistible Joanie.”

~~This is bound to happen on occasion, hearing myself on the radio. It’s a quiet day, no worries,~~ I thought.

I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help myself. I got caught up in the music and sang along -- damned catchy tune. I closed my eyes and bathed in the sound of the radio and my live voice. The music stopped and I heard …

~~Applause?~~

I opened my eyes to my stunned mechanic, a bouncing high-school-age office worker, and an ecstatic dealership owner.

“I didn’t know we had a celebrity in the dealership,” the owner said.

“You do? Where?” I replied, and giggled.

~~I do that so often -- the giggling. Why?~~

“I thought I recognized you, Ms. Brown, but you have such a common name I wasn’t sure until you sang. You should see her Harley, Boss, it’s a real beauty, as are you, Joanie,“ said the mechanic.

~~Young, reasonably attractive, good with his hands and a charmer, he’s a maybe -- date-material wise -- but not today.~~

* * * *

I autographed some things for them and posed with my cycle for their “wall of satisfied customers” I think they called it. As we did that a small crowd gathered outside the floor to ceiling windows of the building. I waved to them and signed more autographs. This is a nice aspect of being famous, the kidnapping and inability to be with old friends and family is the flipside.

“Bad news, Joanie; we don’t have the parts nor does the tire store in town. I located a full set of matched tires and tubes. I ordered it but they likely won’t arrive until tomorrow. The supplier assures me they are not out-of-date stock. They will try to same-day ship them as favor, but we’ll see,” he explained.

“I’ll need to call my employer then get a room for the night,” I said.

“There are two nice hotel/motels in town, or one of us could put you up,” the dealer offered.

“A motel is fine by me. Excuse me for a moment, please.”

I called Whateley Security on my cell.

“Joanie here. I’m stuck …”

“... in Berlin with a flat tire. Ms. Hartford called us before she boarded her flight. You’re not scheduled for anything other than a couple training sessions in self-defense tomorrow. We can reschedule, so don’t worry. Joanie; you really should drive a truck,” the dispatcher replied.

“But it was a flat tire!”

~~Some people do not appreciate motorcycles.~~

* * * *

The young office gal, Julie Anne Stevens, called and reserved me a nice motel room. She also recommended several restaurants and pubs I might like.

“The Box-T has great steak dinners and a beautiful antique bar. They have the best country music in town. Some nights it’s a DJ, on occasion karaoke, but tonight is a local country band and they are great. You’ll have a wonderful time, and I can make my friends jealous that I know you,” she added.

“But would we get any time to eat? I might attract too much of the wrong kind of attention,” I said.

“Folks here know how important tourism is for the economy. It’s the slow season as well -- past fall and hunting, too soon for winter sports. We’ll be fine, Joanie, please?”

"Okay, but not too long; I have to ride back to Whateley tomorrow. Julie, how old are you? If they serve liquor, how will you get in, you look, heck I look underage. No way are you 21.”

“I’m 17 but they never card me. I’ll stay out of trouble and drink Sprite with a slice of lime hung on the rim. It looks like a drink but is only soda. Satisfied?”

“Okay. Let’s set a time to meet there,” I replied.

“Seven for dinner, nine for the music and dancing,” Julie Anne said.

* * * *

I checked into my room, and changed into some water-proof soft-sided winter boots in place of the cycle boots. With a modest one-and-one-half inch heel, and a patterned sole, they provided good traction in the snow. My insulated stirrup pants, tailored flannel men’s-style shirt and wool sweater I’d worn under the riding suit were warm and stylish — not that you could see them then. With the suit off, I looked pretty good. A highly compressible synth-down jacket, part of my cold-weather emergency kit, and a blaze orange knit hat and Ultra-therm insulated leather gloves, also blaze orange, completed the ensemble.

~~There goes my preppy look,~~

So what if blaze orange is geeky; it’s so much more visible in the woods or traffic. Fashion conscious I may be these days, but I’m no fool when it comes to safety.

I tore through the quirkier shops in town looking for additional gifts. I found a curio store with delicate figurines for sale. I purchased a pair of hand-made glass cats and had them specially packed so I could ship them to my sister.

“We could do the shipping for you at cost,” they offered.

“I’m too famous and fear for my sister’s safety if her address gets out. I have a way to ship it that it can’t be traced back to me or you,” I said. The shop keeper was relieved I was not upset with them, but was simply being careful.

I found a leather goods store. I got my dad an oversized key-case as he has lots of keys and needed a new one. Then I saw this handsome man’s wallet with built in holders for photos. I bought it for Eric and had it personalized by laser burning the message, “To Eric, the first man I kissed. Love, Joanie.”

Why I did this I haven’t a clue. I must be teasing him, I suppose, but he is a nice boy. If he brags to his schoolmates that we’ve kissed, what’s the harm? I agreed to the dance both to ease myself into dating men and to boost Eric’s popularity with his schoolmates. If I’d received a gift like this from a pretty older girl at his age, I’d have been in heaven.

~~He’ll go crazy when he opens this gift, particularly after I put a few signed photos in it. I have got to take one of myself in that pink thong-bikini for him! ... I AM a tease. On second though, that’s too risqué. I’ll take a glamour shot, something sweet and not available to the public. That would be more believable too, something more like a real girlfriend would send him. The kids at his school will be sooo jealous. I’m gonna have such fun with him at the dance.~~

* * * *

I finished gift shopping and stashed them in my motel room, then went and got everything I needed to bake and roast for the Christmas dinner -- including a turkey. I got the store to keep all my purchases in their walk-in refrigerator overnight so nothing would spoil. They were glad to do it as Whateley was a customer. Talk about luck!

I didn’t have anything suitable for evening wear, so I went to a local women’s clothing store and got a few essentials. I cleaned up and dressed at the motel then walked the short distance to the Box-T.

* * * *

“I’m sorry miss, but I must check your ID. We are strict on not serving alcohol to underage drinkers,” the man at the entrance said politely.

“Sure, here’s my DL. I’m here to meet a young woman from the cycle dealership, Julie Anne Stevens. Am I at the right place? She said she never gets carded here,” I asked, perplexed.

“We don’t check her IDs because she’s my daughter, I own the place and my staff is under strict orders to never let her near alcohol. Welcome, Ms. Brown,” he said, smiling as he looked at my drivers license and me. “Julie called saying she’d met a special person and to treat her well. Greta, come here at once, please.”

A thirty-ish, immaculately made-up waitress hurried to us. She gave me a long look then looked at her boss for instructions.

“Greta, this is Joanie; she will be dining with Julie Anne tonight. See to it that they get one of our best tables. And before you ask, she is *that*Joanie,” he added. ”May I take you hat and coat?”

I took off my jacket, hat and gloves and gave them to him. I thought I heard a whistle from somewhere in the nearby kitchen. I smiled; I knew I’d chosen the right outfit.

My waitress led me to a well placed table, near to but not too near the stage.
Our table was central to everything and handy to where the dance floor would be yet away from doorways and other annoyances.

"Did you want anything to drink? We have an excellent bar,” she asked.

"Since Julie can’t drink, that wouldn’t be fair to her. I’ll have one of those lime or lemon slices with a well iced soda. Squirt if you have it, or Sprite. And a small regular coffee, black; it’s been a long day,” I finished.

“Why are you in Berlin, if I may ask?”

“I was coming to shop, and my motorcycle blew a tire five miles out of town. A colleague at the school I’m employed at drove me to the local dealership, and here I am until they can get me tires,” I said.

“You're at Whateley!” she exclaimed, softly. “There are rumors in town that the academy hired a top name artist but how could they afford you?”

“I’m also a student. I’ve been like this,” I motioned along my body, ”less than six months, and I need to find my place in life as a woman and mutant. Where better?” I replied.

* * * *

“Sorry I’m late Joanie, but your tires came by special courier and …”

Julie stared at me and this big grin lit up her face. I smiled back.

“You had *that* in your cycle panniers?” she said taking in my ensemble. I stood up.

“Oh, these old grease-rags?” I giggled, and Julie laughed in spite of herself.

Have you seen the film Maid in Manhattan, and the strapless gown Jennifer Lopez wore at the charity ball? This was similar but with a shorter skirt. With the emerald and diamond earrings sparkling, and the locket dangling above my cleavage, it was an elegant and totally impractical outfit.

I’d decided tonight was a special occasion — I decided I would embrace the blessings I had, and let go of my past. I looked like an heiress debutant or the princess in a modern fairytale. I made it more a teen’s outfit with the soft-sided boots of mine. Open-toed heels in the snow were out-of-the-question.

“I feel underdressed. Why so dressed up?“ Julie asked -- not that her outfit was trash by any standard.

“That’s a lovely western cow-girl outfit, Julie. I just felt like taking the woman in me out for a spin. I’ve been in a sour mood the last few days, and I thought it was time to stop the pity train,” I said.

“There is no way anyone could ever see you as anything other than a woman, Joanie, particularly in that getup. Thanks for coming. Over by the left side of the stage, that’s a couple of my friends. Wave to them,” she asked. I waved, their eyes glazed over and Julie Anne giggled in triumph.

* * * *

We had a delightful meal. The food was excellent, and I was pleased with the service, but then it looked to me that all the tables got fine service. Dinner service was winding down, and the area in front of the stage was being cleared for dancing, when a forty-ish woman walked up to us. She was dressed as one of the chefs and looked a lot like Julie.

“You’re her mom, aren’t you? A great dinner and excellent service, thank you,“ I said.

“Julie, your father said you were dining with a VIP, but I never imagined it would be you, Ms. Brown. Having a performer of your caliber is an honor,” she said.

“I’m a flash-in-the-pan at best,” I said, embarrassed.

“If so, then why this?”

The sound system was still playing that country station and I heard the tail-end of one of my recordings.

“That was Joanie with the number one song on the country and pop charts, the Roy Orbison classic, ‘Crying’, recorded shortly before her voluntary hiatus from performing to become a teacher somewhere in New England. We hope she consents to record again soon.”

The patrons made the connection between the radio and I and gave me a standing ovation. I smiled, waved and looked for a bolt-hole to hide in.

“Flash-in-the-pan? Sure honey,” she said, calming me. “I’m happy you enjoyed the meal, Joanie. Please stay; we have a great local band tonight. They play some of the songs you have recorded,” she said and excused herself.

* * * *

The band set up and played a short set as the crowd digested their meals and gradually began to dance. I was asked several times if I wanted to dance, and turned down several attractive men because Julie would have not have had a dance partner. Then the guys got smart, and teamed up so we each had a partner, so we agreed. I had a fun time dancing, not that I knew how but it felt good to move to the music. After a couple dances we excused ourselves to ’freshen-up’.

“I have to leave you for a while; I sing with the band on occasion.” She gave me a look.

“Okay, I’ll stay and listen, happy?”

She squealed with delight and rushed to the stage.

“Our favorite local songbird, Julie, will sing a couple for y’all,” the lead guitarist announced in mock good-ol’-boy.

Julie sang the A.P. Carter classic, 'Gold Watch and Chain' and a spirited version of the Shania Twain hit, 'Man, I Feel Like A Woman'. She was a competent and entertaining performer, and I applauded her honestly, giving her a big hug when she left the stage. The band then invited members of the audience to sing.

“That’s how we met; I sang at one of these nights and they liked me. I can’t tour with them, but I may when I get older,” she said.

“You have a good voice and great stage presence, Julie. Music is a tough business though. Treat it as a gift should you succeed, but don’t count on it for a living. I don’t rely on it,” I cautioned.

They asked who else wanted to go, and Julie volunteered me.

“My friend hasn’t sung. I bet she’s pretty good,” Julie said and snickered.

“I’ll get you my pretty,“ I said, and faked a wicked witch cackle.

The guitarist/MC decided to stick to his usual ‘script’ and have some fun with this.

“Your name, and where you are from, please, Ms.?” the crowds exploded in laughs.

“Joan Brown, I moved here recently from Madison, Wisconsin to take a student teaching post."

“Ever sing in public before?” he could barely keep from snickering.

“Only three times: I doubt if I can make a career of it,” I said and the crowd roared. “The last time was at this big party on Halloween, but some gate crashers ruined it. I do admit I got some big-time exposure from it at the end,” I said and they laughed at my description of the kidnapping from my record premier and my rescue au-natural.

“What do you want to sing, Joan?”

“I like the song Crying. I understand Roy Orbison used it to close many of his concerts,” I said, and smiled.

“We’ll give a try,” he said.

“Do or do not. There is no try,” I said as a tall and decidedly non-green Yoda.

The song was different without the full orchestration, but its power remained undiminished. If anything, the vocal was all the more powerful stripped of the gingerbread of a studio recording. Sometimes less is more. We finished to heartwarming applause and I left for my seat.

“The gal has the number one song in America, and she doesn’t think she can make a career of it,” the MC said as I sat down.

* * * *

I signed autographs and returned to my motel for the night after thanking Julie. I was wound up from the singing, so I went for a late-night swim in the motel pool. I was the only one there so I took a chance and skinny-dipped, something I never did before. Due to my, um, interesting hydrodynamics this sympathetic vibration, for want of a more specific term, developed as I swam. It was particularly intense when I’d push off from a turn.

~~That’s curious, I feel ... I *know* what I feel but why?~~

After a few laps I had to stop, not due to fatigue but to keep from … It felt *that* good, I could have done it for hours.

~~It’s good I learned this now. This is definitely a do-at-your-own-risk activity. Whoa! If ever did this in front of a man … Let’s see, turned on and naked; can you say barefoot and pregnant?~~

I got back to my room undetected -- and mildly disappointed, I must admit -- showered and went to sleep. My last thoughts were of my dear friends in Iowa, Wisconsin, and Whateley.

* * * *

December 22, 2006, Berlin NH

I woke to the sounds of snow blowers and a plow rumbling past. I dressed quickly and peered out at a winter wonderland dreamscape -- a motorcyclist’s nightmare. I got breakfast at the restaurant next to the motel; they had a cooperative arrangement. I then picked my way carefully to the cycle dealer.

“Your cycle is ready to go, I even managed to road test it, but no way can you ride in that. I wouldn’t chance it even with a side car attached, not until they plow all the roads which could be a few days,” my mechanic, Isaac, stated.

“I do need to get back. I have duties at my school. Is there anyway it can be done safely? If it’s too risky, I’ll wait,” I explained.

“It’s a slow day; they might send me home early, unless we get snowmobiles in for repairs. We service them, too. It’s early, I have an all-wheel-drive pickup; I could take you to Whateley. Let me ask my boss,” Isaac said.

* * * *

An hour later we were driving at a slow but steady pace out of town, his tire chains making the tires resonate like strange drums. We’d stopped at my motel to get my stuff and pay up, and at the store to get my bags from the walk-in refrigerator. At fifteen to twenty mph max, the drive would take three times or longer compared with dry weather but we‘d get there soon enough. We talked as we drove. It was more he talked and I listened.

I learned Isaac’s wife had died soon after their second child, a boy, died weeks after birth. His daughter Leeann and he were alone and the daughter was having problems.

“Her mom committed suicide -- post partum depression the doctors called it. She seemed okay until our son died, then in days she fell apart. Leeann tried to tell me her mom was sick. Since she wasn’t in school yet, she saw Mom all the time and noticed her giving up on life. I thought it was stress and the lingering effects of a difficult birth, but my wife was hiding her pain from us until it was too late.

“Leeann calls herself Lee, now. She isn’t in trouble, but she’s too serious for a first grader. The child in her is dead, and she tries to suppress all emotion. I’m worried she won’t snap out of it, and she’ll end up a bitter and lonely person. She won’t let anyone hug her or kiss her; she says weak people do that, and she won’t be weak. I wish I could help her, but I’ve exhausted most of my health insurance benefits on our dead son. Leeann won’t cooperate with a counselor, so what can I do?” he asked. “Sorry to lay this on you, but sometimes I have to talk about it or go mad.”

We got to Whateley safely, and I said I’d ask our doctors for ideas he might try. He thanked me; we unloaded my cycle, panniers and new purchases. Then he said goodbye and drove slowly back towards Berlin.

* * * *

I checked in with Security, parked my cycle in the Operations fleet facility and managed to get my Christmas food supplies stored safely in the small auxiliary kitchen in Poe Hall.

Once all the perishables were in safe storage, I began to bake cookies, buns, and seasonal breads including tasty and not the least bit rock-hard eggnog bread -- a kind of fruitcake or sweetbread. Some was for the Christmas feast with the Andersons but most I gave to various people and departments. It felt better to be busy, plus others would share in the enjoyment.

My impromptu gift giving -- delivering my fresh-baked goodies -- gave me an excuse to visit medical where I got some advice on how to help Leeann, short of kidnapping her and forcing her into a mental health facility. Hey, the docs got three-dozen cookies and eggnog bread out of me in exchange. Believe me, they were well paid. Next, I headed on to Administration. I was surprised to see Ms. Hartford back; her trip certainly was a brief one.

* * * *

“Ms. Hartford, I baked these in thanks for your being my angel on the road to Berlin,” I said as I set a large paper bag filled with breads, buns and goodies on her desk. “I don’t know what you like, Ms Hartford, so if you don’t like something or can’t eat it all, feel free to share it as you see fit.”

“Um, thank you?’ she said, unprepared for my kindness.

“Is Ms. Carson in,” I asked, she remained confused. “I’ll knock,” I said.

* * * *

“Yes, Joanie, what may I do for you?” Ms. Carson asked.

“This is for you. Thanks for taking on a foolish and inexperienced girl as an employee and student; I appreciate it. Yes the slightly lumpy cookies are raisin/oatmeal. I know your secret weakness, Ms. Carson. Superman has kryptonite, you have raisin/oatmeal -- bru-ha-ha-ha ! Enjoy,” I said, and giggled my way out of the building.

* * * *

During the day, I continued baking while thinking about Isaac’s daughter and ways I might help her. So many people had been kind to me since my mutation, I felt obligated to return the favor, but how? I called Berlin and talked at length with Julie Ann about Isaac and his unhappy daughter.

Late that day I got road condition reports from Whateley Security and the regional Sheriff’s offices. I could make a day visit to Berlin tomorrow if I was careful. I mulled over a plan in my mind and hoped it might help. I spent several hours assembling the necessary *equipment* but I soon had what I needed.

* * * *

December 23, 2006

The forecast was right, and the roads were clear enough for me and my cycle to chance the trip back to Berlin. Early that morning, I’d described Leann’s plight to Ms. Carson. I explained my intentions, and she agreed to the plan. I called ahead to Isaac and we decided to meet at the dealership. I changed into the odd outfit I had assembled from bits and pieces the costuming classroom lent me, then slipped my winter motorcycle jumpsuit over it and road off. I was determined to help, winters chill and my period were not going to stop me.

* * * *

I parked at the cycle dealership and got the spare keys to my mechanic’s house.

”I can’t thank you enough for doing this for my daughter. I feel so inadequate as a father,” Isaac said.

“You’re doing fine from what your friends say -- I asked Julie Ann about you, and she had nothing but praise. Let’s say I can help, so I’m helping and leave it at that. It would be best if you don’t talk about my visit. People known publicly as my friends are at risk from loonies, kidnappers and extortionists,” I said to warn him.

“That must be true of celebrities in general, look at Charles Lindberg, Patty Hurst or David Letterman. I’ll accept the risk if you can restore my little girl,” Isaac replied.

“I’ll try,” I said and we walked to his home.

He’d informed me that Lee — he looked so sad when he said “Lee” -- had Saturday morning classes, swimming and gymnastics, so we had a few hours to prepare my surprise for her. I set up a live, potted Frasier Fir in their three-season porch and decorated it carefully. He worked on digging a hole and back filling it with straw and a tarp so they could plant the tree immediately after Christmas. I helped haul the soil into their garage to keep it from freezing. Luckily the frost was shallow and we were done well before he had to pick up his daughter. We cleaned up, and I touched-up my costume. We hurried back to the cycle dealership. I changed my tampon and liner as a precaution, then waited out of sight but where I could hear. I didn’t have long to wait. He walked in the door with an androgynously dressed girl.

* * * *

“Leeann, I have to work this afternoon. You feel up to taking care of yourself for a few hours?” Isaac asked his daughter.

“Dad, I’m Lee! Leeann is a little girl’s name. I am not a baby. I am almost seven. I can make a sandwich or scrambled eggs. I will be okay. Stop treating me like a kid,” she said in an angry/sad tone.

“But you are a little girl; you’re in first grade. Leeann is a pretty name; your mommy named you. Why don’t you like it?”

He knew well why she didn’t like it, but deliberately used her birth name for my benefit.

“Leeann is a stupid, silly name; a weak little girl’s name. I will not be weak like Mom and …”

“But, Leeann, Mom couldn’t help it. Sometimes moms get depression -- it’s like being really sad all the time -- after they give birth. When your baby brother died she couldn’t take it. Mom was sick in her mind, but she hid it from us. If I’d known, we could have got her help, and she’d be alive, but I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Hon,” he said holding back tears.

“Mom was weak. I will not be weak. She chose to die; I hate her!” Leeann shouted and stormed off.

* * * *

I waited for her to get a short way out the door, then I paralleled her to her house. I waited until she was in her yard when I let loose with barrage of snowballs -- gently thrown -- all around her. My exemplar body and momentary use of my time-stop made it easy. If you saw the snowball fight in the film Elf a few years back you’ve got the general picture. I made sure to miss her though; I don’t pick on kids, or anyone else, except in good-natured fun.

“Who is it? Is it you Tommy and Billy? I am not afraid of you!” she called out defiantly.

“I’m definitely not a boy. Hi, I’m an elf and are you hard to get a hold of Miss Leeann,” I said as I appeared right in front of her out of nowhere -- again thanks to my time-stop.

“I’m Lee, I don’t like Leeann. And elves do not exist; they are myth … mythi ….”

“Mythological beings, as in not for real,” I said completing her sentence.

“Yeah, and you’re too tall. Elves are short, have pointy ears, and they are not real,” she said with conviction.

“Who says an elf has to be tiny or have funny ears? Can’t we be tall and pretty if we like? We’re creatures of magic; we can be any size we need to be. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Elf Joanie,” I said and held out my hand.

She ignored it and said,” You’re no elf. Go away or I will call the cops. I have a cell-phone,” she warned me. Her language was too mature for her age.

“Sorry, I’ve got diplomatic immunity,“ I said, giggled, and bounced around her popping up here and there by using short bursts of time-stop.

~~I will be one tired mutant by the time this is over.~~

Leeann’s eyes went wide at my antics. I was clearly breaking through her defenses.

“How did you do that?” she shrieked.

“I’m an elf, we just do it -- like in the Nike ads,” I added and giggled.

She started to snicker, but fought to hold it in. I saw my opening and took it.

“Lee or Leeann, either is a pretty name for a pretty young lady, wouldn’t you rather talk inside? I’ll bet you’re hungry. I could use some cocoa. What do you say?”

“I guess you could be an elf?” she said in a questioning tone. “Okay, come in but no trouble,” she stated.

* * * *

“What are you having for lunch? I can help; we elves are real helpful,” I said and snickered a bit. I saw Leeann smile in spite of her effort not to.

“I was gonna make scrambled eggs. Sometimes I get bits of shell in them. Can you help?”

“Sure, though even elves aren’t perfect,” I said and giggled. She smiled a big smile. Then that sad mask came over her face again.

I noticed they had bell pepper, leftover ham and some cheese.

“I could teach you to make an omelet. It’s scrambled eggs made extra fancy,” I said.

“Okay.”

I helped her grate the cheese, dice the pepper and cut up the ham.

“Be real careful with the grater; you could cut your self,” I warned her.

“I help Dad make pizza; I know how,” she said.

She was nearly finished when I heard her cry out.

“Ah! Oh my! Miss Elf lady, I cut myself!” she exclaimed and I saw tears on her face.

“Come here, let me look. I’m good at fixing cuts; I was in the Elf Scouts or was the Brownies?” I said and she smiled at my joke.

She showed me where the bandages and medicines were. I helped her clean her wound and put a bandage with antibiotic ointment on it.

“That better. I bet it hurts though, huh?” I asked. She nodded.

“You were a brave little girl,” I asked her, deliberately saying ‘girl.’

“I’m not a little girl,” she stared firmly.

~~Okay, let’s not pressure the child. New tack.~~

“What do you see yourself as, Lee?”

“I’m not a boy, I know that. I’m a girl but I am not a crybaby. I will grow up a strong lady. I will never cry! I’ll be tough like Dad,” she said, looking confident but sad.

“You have a nice dad, but girls usually want to be like their moms. My mom got sick -- she had cancer -- and she died before I looked like this. I never got to show her how I turned out. I miss her so much and hope to be a kind lady like she was. What was your mom like? I bet she was pretty like you.”

~~Going for broke are we, Joanie?~~

“Mom was … my mother was … Mom …” she struggled to speak but began to sob. “Mom why did you leave me?!” she cried then collapsed into my arms.

“It’s okay to cry child, I cry for lots of reasons too. It’s okay to miss your mother. Take all the time you need.”

Leeann cried off-and-on for an hour. The way she held on to me *screamed* she was starved for human contact. I let her have as much or as little as she wanted; it felt right somehow. One of my arms fell half-asleep, she was hugging me so hard. When she calmed down we got up and finished making our omelet. I heated some water for hot cocoa while we ate.

“Tell me about your mom. Did she sing any special songs to you or play any silly games? Did you have secrets you shared? Tell me, please,” I pleaded sweetly.

We sipped our cocoa, and she talked non-stop. Three years of pain and frustration were blown aside by fond memories of her lost mom.

“Mom was real pretty. She wasn’t tall like you, Elf Joanie, but she had dark, shiney hair. She had a pretty smile and happy eyes like yours. Mom’s eyes were green. I like your copper eyes too. You are very pretty, Elf Joanie. I like your perfume. It makes you smell like flowers. Mom smelled of flowers all the time, except after my brother died. I knew something was wrong. She stopped smelling of flowers. Her hair was not shiny. Her eyes were not happy. I didn’t know why. I wanted to ask her. I wanted to tell Dad that Mom wasn’t right, but I felt bad ‘cause I didn’t like my baby brother. I wished he’d go away so it could be Mom, Dad and me again and then ….”

“Your brother died, and you thought it was your fault?”

She nodded.

“No way was it your fault. And you believed you were somehow responsible for your brother and mom’s deaths all this time?”

She nodded again.

“No wonder you’re not happy. You have to tell your dad; he’s hurting inside because he doesn’t know what’s wrong with you,” I said.

“No, Dad will hate me for hating my brother!” Leeann cried.

“Your dad will understand. I said dumb things about my younger sister after she was born -- I wanted a brother. Sis and I have been the best of friends for years,” I said.

“For years? How old are you, Elf Joanie?”

“I’m a young elf, I’m 49 years old.”

“No! You look so young. Daddy is only 29 and he looks lot’s older,” she gasped.

“Let’s go see your *old* man them, okay, Leeann?” I asked and she giggled

I also noticed she didn’t automatically object to “Leeann.” We got our winter stuff back on and left the house for the motorcycle dealership.

* * * *

“Dad? Daddy!” Leeann called out once we entered the dealership.

“Lee?” he replied.

“It’s Leeann, Dad. You can call me Lee if you like. I have to tell you about mom and my brother and ...” she said, ran up to him and cried.

* * * *

I walked away and closed the door to the repair shop behind me as they talked, seriously talked, probably for the first time since her mom had died. I hoped she would agree to work with a therapist to resolve her troubles but at least she was opening up. I went to the office and got out the special gift I’d hid there earlier in the day. I made sure that Julie Ann, the office girl, would give it to Isaac and Leeann after they had their talk. The box held some cookies I’d baked and I added a note to the outside telling Leeann to enjoy her childhood and not worry about being a tough girl. It ended,

“Promise me to be yourself. Be who you want to be, not who you think you need to be. Do that for yourself first, and you’ll be fine.

“Your friend,

“Joanie.”

I had one last duty to do for Leeann. Via the magic of a local courier service, she’d receive a wrapped present tomorrow. It would contain my music CD -- autographed of course -- a photo of me as I usually dress, my private mail and e-mail addresses, and a CD I’d be burning in my Whateley laptop tonight. I’d make a short video explaining the reason behind everything I’d done, and how I hoped she could someday return the favor to another person who needed help.

* * * *

I rode back to Whateley shortly before dark, and spent the rest of the day wrapping presents for shipment to my friends after including the appropriate pictures. With a digital camera and my school laptop, I printed out some lovely photos for my friends to remember me by. I shot a couple special ones for Eric; I was feeling very silly at the time. I set my camera to shoot HD video and got a great still from it of me in profile with my hair in motion — real artistic and dynamic. I also did a close-up where I had this wistful expression — I looked so innocent yet so hot. *I* wanted to date this girl.

~~ He’ll love this …Teasing boys is fun, damn I wish I’d been born a girl.~~

* * * *

December 24, 2006

Christmas Eve was spent baking, and shuttling food and supplies to the Anderson's flat for the big feast. I made several calls during the day to home and to Madison. The Terrace Hill switchboard was jammed with political well-wishers, so all I could do was leave the Johnsons my recorded greetings. I pulled a double shift that afternoon and evening assisting Whateley Security officers, allowing a married officer to spend the night with her spouse.

* * * *

December 25, 2006, Christmas morning

I have to write this down before the memory fades. I had a strange dream. I was in an almost featureless space, as if standing in the middle of a flat desert in the haze. A woman who was unfamiliar, yet familiar, to me appeared out of the uniform gray of my surroundings, walked over and smiled.

“Thank you for helping my daughter. I wish I’d lived to meet you in person,” the woman said.

~~Strange lady. She’s scant feet away from me, yet speaks as if she’s not here.~~

In the distance was a shapely young woman -- likely no more than twenty -- her clothing and hairstyle were sixty years out of date. I could not make her out clearly, but when she smiled my heart jumped.

Impossible! It can’t be her, can it?~~ My mind was in chaos. I could make no sense of it.

The first woman pointed to the second and said, “This is as near as she may come; I’m sorry. She says to be strong, Joanie, and that she will always love you …” the woman said and they both vanished into nothingness.

I woke soon after.

~~Was that how my mind's-eye pictured Leeann’s dead mother? The other woman, she had to be Mom as she was in the mid 1940’s. My imagination worked overtime to cook this dream up. This was so Here Comes Mr. Jordan it’s not funny. It was a dream, wasn’t it?~~

* * * *

Christmas Day flew by in a flurry of baking, eating, and pleasant conversation. I’d shocked the twins with my turkey, but I pointed out the magic word -- leftovers -- and they relaxed. The bread and giblets stuffed turkey came out perfect, and the girls agreed it tasted of simpler times. I described what I done for Leeann and Isaac, and they called me a softy. I got warm hugs from the twins as well; they must like softies. As to the dream of the two women, that answer still has me confused, but in a good way.

“Joanie, I ‘read’ you as you spoke. I couldn’t help it; your thoughts were so intense. The image in your mind is so strong I can’t say if it was a dream or a vision. But does it matter? You did right by the child, and what you’ve done since your mutation would surely have pleased you mother. You say your dad and sister are happy for you, it’s time you were too, girl,” Tina said, and gave me a beautiful smile.

“You’re right Tina, I am blessed, it’s taken me a while to realize it, but I promise from this day forward you won’t hear a complaint from me about my lot in life,” I said resolutely. Then Chris and Tine grinned.

~~Oh, oh.~~

“Tell us again about this date you agreed to with Eric?”

“IT”S NOT A DATE!”

Oh well, I tried.

Until next time, dear diary/journal/whatever.

End Entry.

The end.

* * * *

Thanks to Itinerant and all the others who have entered Erin’s BC Holiday Story Contest. I hope my little story amused you. Thanks again to Itinerant and Janet Nolan for their help in polishing this unwieldy mess.

Notes:

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